


Mech in Shining Armor

by thekumquat



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Mentions of dubious consent, Prostitution, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekumquat/pseuds/thekumquat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kink meme. Jazz is a prostitute, left for dead on the streets by one of his clients. Prowl is a good Samaritan who finds and rescues him. He claims to just want to help, but Jazz has been hurt too many times before to trust so easily. Jazz is convinced that Prowl has an ulterior motive for helping him, but he just can't help but start to fall in love with this strange mech. </p><p>But the mech who hurt Jazz in the first place is still around, and he's far from done...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt for the kinkmeme. This thing started out small, and just kept growing, so I gave up trying to force it into lj comment boxes and fessed up to my identity to save myself a little piece of mind. The original prompt is here: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12778752#t12778752

It was raining. 

“Raining” was hardly the ideal word to use. It failed to encompass the sheer power of the storm. Water poured from the sky like the tears of Primus, a torrential deluge that crashed against roofs, thundered against windows and plowed down gutters, dragging debris with it to the sewers below. 

If Jazz wasn’t careful, he’d be dragged along with it. He’d managed to wedge himself into a doorway long since sealed up, but with his strength failing he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay upright. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid… 

Maybe it would be better if he let it. Just let go and be swept away in the surge, to wake up wiped clean and new and whole again. 

It was a stupid, fanciful thought.

But that’s all Jazz had left right now, stupid fanciful thoughts. 

Primus, everything hurt. Steelwing had been brutal. 

“Shoulda called him Steelfist,” Jazz slurred, hiccupping a laugh at his own joke through the energon spilling from his mouth. How he’d managed to run this far he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure how far from the brothel he was, but he was far enough away that Steelwing hadn’t chased him, and that was good enough for him. 

He could feel stasis lock creeping up on him as his sensory input began to falter. He considered fighting it, but what was there for him now? The brothel wouldn’t take him back now. No job, no skills, no nothing. The brothel had been his last chance, and he’d blown it. 

His optics dimmed. The cold of the rain and the gritty metal of the alley ground became distant sensations. Even the bitter tang of his own energon faded. The last thing to go was his audio sensors. The last thing he’d hear would be the rain. 

_That’s not so bad,_ he thought. _I’ve always liked the sound of rain._

The rain and…something else. Something heavy. Thunder? But no, it was too regular to be thunder. 

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…_

Footsteps, he realized. His spark flared with terror and his optics onlined with a suddenness that was nearly as startling and terrifying as the realization. 

Footsteps. Steelwing had found him. 

The mech would kill him, that much was certain. Jazz might be about to die, but he wanted to die peacefully, relatively painlessly, not at the hands of some psychotic noble. 

He tried to stand and toppled forward onto the ground. Desperately he tried to drag himself into the shadows, but even charged by fear he couldn’t find the strength. The footsteps drew closer, and a whimper slipped from his vocalizer. 

Jazz felt more than heard the rumble of a voice—

_This is the last mistake you’ll ever make, shareware._

He wouldn’t beg. He’d promised himself that. He wouldn’t beg for mercy from this monster. He bit down hard on his lip plating. He wouldn’t beg. He _wouldn’t_. 

A shape knelt over him, fuzzy and indistinct. The voice kept speaking, lowly, gently. He couldn’t hear any malice but Steelwing was cold, terrifyingly so. There were hands on his arms. He tried to struggle, but they were firm – gentle, though. Not trapping and pinning but lifting, soothing. 

“It’s okay,” a voice whispered. “It’s okay; I’m not going to hurt you.” 

It wasn’t Steelwing. He didn’t know if it was another one of the servicemechs from the brothel or what, but the voice was kind and it wasn’t Steelwing. The fear melted away like frost, leaving him limp and unresisting as he was lifted up. 

“I’ve got you.” 

As if someone flicked a switch, Jazz went offline.


	2. Chapter 2

Jazz was awake, but he didn’t want to online his optics. Onlining his optics meant getting up, and getting up meant beginning the drudgery of his everyday life.

Every day started the same for Jazz. Wake up, stare at ceiling, hate life, get up, wash, morning refuel (late morning, the one perk of working nights), hate life, wash, hate life, buff out the marks from the night before, wash, wax, resist the urge to wash again (he never felt clean enough)…

He cancelled the thought process. He still had a few minutes before his alarm went off, and he didn’t want to waste them by thinking about real life. He pressed his face against the berth and dug his fingers into the cooling blanket wrapped around him.

Cooling blanket.

He didn’t have a cooling blanket.

His eyes snapped open.

This was not his room.

His room was small and shabby and tastefully decorated, as best as he’d been able. A bed big enough for him and his client, cracked red walls, a music system hidden in his closet, and a private washrack about the size of said closet.

This room was clean and spaceous and completely white. Not the sterile white of a hospital, which would have been his first guess; but a decorative white. The room’s decorations were deliberately, artistically minimalist rather than the emptiness of not having anything to display. Sunlight streamed in from a large window overlooking a much nicer part of the city than Jazz frequented.

Where in Primus’ name was he?

There was a door to his left that led no doubt to the rest of the building, but it was closed, leaving no hint as to what, or who, lay beyond. No one he knew had the money to afford a place like this. The police wouldn’t have brought him someplace like this, not that they’d even care about a pleasure mech bleeding to death in an alleyway.

He realized he was twisting the cooling blanket in his hands and carefully let it go, cycling a deep vent to cool himself down. For the first time, he noticed the silvery weldmarks on his hands, shockingly bright against his dull plating. Looking himself over, he could see that the rest of his wounds had been patched up. His dents had been popped out as well, even the old ones. He looked much better, though he still ached from the intensity of the beating –

_Steelwing’s optics were cold, emotionless. Jazz caught glimpses of his face every time he raised his fist. He kicked and bit and struggled and he might as well have been lying still for all the good it did. But it was the optics that frightened him most. There was no anger, no hatred, no glee in the pain he was causing, only calculated brutality. He lashed out, digging his fingers into those optics, desperate to gouge them out just to make them stop looking at him like that, like he was—_

Jazz shook his head hard and then flinched as his processor spun, still unsettled from his injuries. Or maybe it was going three days without a proper refuel. It could have been either.

He wasn’t in the hospital and he wasn’t in the brothel, so where in the Pit was he? He pushed the cooling blanket aside and swung his legs around, wincing both at the stretch of barely-healed pistons and the streaks of grime he’d left behind on the formerly pristine berth.

With a groan, he hauled himself to his feet, stumbling slightly. A clock on the berthside shelf announced the time to be midafternoon. He limped towards the window, hoping to get some sense of where he was.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Jazz yelped and spun around. A black and white mech stood in the doorway, watching Jazz carefully.

“I’m sorry,” the mech said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Who are you?” Jazz asked, trying to sound as nonthreatening as possible. The mech was bigger than he was, and built strong – a Praxian. Maybe Jazz could go for the door wings if he needed to fight his way out, but underfueled and still recovering from his beating, there was no way he’d be able to put up a proper fight.

“My name is Prowl. I found you on the street last night. I thought you looked like you could use some help.” He gestured to the berth. “Please, lay back down. You’re not well enough to be up and about.”

Jazz didn’t move.  Nothing came free in this life. This mech wanted something. If Jazz was lucky, he was looking for a personal pleasure bot. If he was unlucky, this Prowl was a serial killer, and Jazz was going to end up as a statistic on a police report.

Prowl frowned and Jazz stiffened.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the other mech said.

“You gonna tell me ya promise, cross your spark and hope to die?”

The corner of Prowl’s mouth quirked upwards.

“Fair enough.” He reached into his subspace. Jazz shifted his balance, ready to run if it was a knife or a blaster.

Whatever Prowl pulled out, it was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He tossed it to Jazz, who caught it easily.

A badge. Prowl was a police officer. Jazz went very still. Prostitution was technically legal on Cybertron, but most people considered it a morally bankrupt profession and made your life difficult when they found out about it. The police couldn’t arrest you for interfacing for credits but they could be _very_ inventive about what they did get you for.

“Sergeant-at-arms Prowl, at your service,” Prowl said. At his service. Right. “And you are…?”

“Jazz.” Why in the Pit did he bring Jazz here, wherever here was? Unless the police had done some major renovations on their holding cells, he wasn’t at the station. Was this the game Prowl was going to play? Interfacing for free to keep out of jail? This could be a lot worse than Jazz expected.

“Why’d you bring me here?” Jazz crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to make the move look defiant.

“I told you: you looked like you needed some help. I thought it was better not to bring you back to the hospital for…obvious reasons.”

Jazz’s mouth tightened as he fought not to scowl, but Prowl was right. With his cheap, flashy paintjob and the ghosts of swapped paint and dents scattered around his hips that never quite went away, it was obvious who he was. _What_ he was.

“I realize what this must look like to you; I do, but please believe me. I only wanted to help.”   

So the mech was looking for a private pleasurebot. It wasn’t the first he’d ever heard of this particular trick -- rescue some poor bot down on their luck, then get them indebted to you so they feel they can’t leave. Do all the terrible things you want and you don’t have to pay for it and you don’t have to worry about them going to the police because well, no one believed him about Steelwing. Who’d believe him about a police officer? No one listened to buymechs. Well Prowl was in for a surprise, because Jazz didn’t care about owing.

He’d grit his denta and go along with it as long as he needed to, until he was healed and fueled and maybe had some credits tucked away.

Then he’d take off and he wouldn’t look back. He’d try again. Clearly Tyger Pax was a bust. Maybe he’d try Polyhex. Or Kaon. Morality barely existed there, so it was generally safer (as much as anything could be safe in Kaon).

Jazz knew how to play this: polite and respectful, with no flirtiness. Be nice, but give no opening if you can help it. Show no weakness. He remembered his first time on the job, an older mech who took him aside, digging fingers into his arm plating to make him listen. _Show no weakness._

“I appreciate it,” Jazz said with a smile, though it burned inside. Prowl smiled. It _looked_ relieved.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jazz.”

“Likewise,” Jazz said. He glanced around the room and shifted nervously. Prowl was still blocking the only exit, and it was making his wires itch. Standing was starting to make his head swim, so he shuffled over to the berth and sat on the edge facing Prowl. It put him a little closer to the mech than he’d like, but it was better than turning his back to him.

Prowl reached into his subspace again and pulled out a cube of energon.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

Jazz eyes latched onto the cube. He hadn’t had a proper refuel in days, and that cube looked like the most delicious thing he’d ever seen. He wondered what Prowl was going to ask him to do for it.

“Yeah,” Jazz said. “I am.”

If Jazz had to play this game, he was going to do it with as much dignity as he could muster. He watched warily as Prowl walked towards him, still holding the cube of energon.

He hoped Prowl wouldn’t pour it on himself and make Jazz lick it off. It was such a waste, and you couldn’t get a proper refuel from it, not that mechs like Prowl would know that.

When Prowl reached the edge of the bed Jazz was sitting on, he held the cube out to Jazz. Jazz waited for a moment, to see what he’d do. When the policemech didn’t move, Jazz reached out, carefully. Would Prowl grab Jazz’s wrist before he could touch the cube, tell him to earn it?

As it turned out, Prowl didn’t. When Jazz gingerly took the cube, all Prowl did was drop his hand and smile.

The smile made Jazz wary. Was there something in the energon, something to knock him out or get him hooked so Jazz needed him? It was a common thing with the worst pimps and brothels. As Jazz hesitated further, Prowl’s smile started to morph into something else, and Jazz didn’t want to see what.

He didn’t want to know if Prowl was a mech like Steelwing.

He took a hurried mouthful of energon but didn’t swallow right away, though he moved his mouth to give the impression he had. He couldn’t taste anything odd about the energon, other than that it was of a much higher quality than he’d had in a long time. He swallowed for real and the rest of the energon soon followed.

“Well that was quick.” Prowl said. Jazz looked for any signs of smugness or arousal, but saw only concern. “Do you want another one? I could tell you were in a bad way, but I wasn’t sure how bad.”

“No, I’m fine.” In truth, Jazz could have had a dozen more cubes easily, but he didn’t want Prowl to know that. The less weakness Jazz showed, the less it would seem like Prowl owed him.

 “Alright. Do you need anything else?”

“No. I’d like to rest.” He hoped Prowl would just leave. He glanced down at the berth and grimaced, noticing all the smears he’d left on it.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s seen worse.”

 _Now what was_ that _supposed to mean?_ Jazz wondered.

“I’ll let you rest. I’ll be in the other room, if you need me for anything.” With that, Prowl left, shutting the door behind him.

“Yeah, right,” Jazz muttered. “And I’ll be _sure_ to let you know.”

Exhausted, he flopped back onto the berth and fell swiftly into recharge. 


	3. Chapter 3

Normally, Jazz only recharged for a few hours at a time, but when he onlined his optics, the clock told him it was early morning. He supposed the full cube of energon had something to do with that. Maybe next time he would ask for two.

He yawned and stretched luxuriously. Prowl’s berth was really something else. He felt like he could stay there and sleep forever. Probably not a good idea to push his luck, though. He stood and noted with pleasure how much faster his self-repair worked when he was actually fuelled. A ping on his HUD told him his fuel tank was very low, which didn’t surprise him. Self repair always took a lot out of him.

He went and stood in front of the door to the rest of the apartment, weighing his options and the possibilities in front of him. So far, Prowl had seemed like a generous, helpful person, but Jazz had met a lot of mechs and femmes that were good at seeming. It was possible that Prowl was a mech who would seem nice only as long as Jazz did what he wanted, and turn on him the second he didn’t. He could also be the crazy type of mech who was nice one day and raving ball of fury the next.

If Prowl turned out to be physically abusive, Jazz had a problem. Emotional abuse, Jazz could handle. He was no small hand at manipulation; it was part of the job. But if it got physical, it would turn bad for Jazz very quickly. He was in no fit state to defend himself, as he’d proved two nights before. 

Well, he had no way of knowing how this was going to turn out without more evidence. He pressed the button and the door slid open, revealing the rest of the apartment. A quick glance around showed him that it was decorated in the same white minimalist style as the bedroom. Jazz tutted to himself. In just the bedroom, it looked elegant and sophisticated. In the whole apartment, however, it made the place seem cold and un-lived in.

“Prowl, my mech, I am disappointed,” Jazz said to himself as he moved out into the apartment in search of the energon dispenser. It took little searching to find the kitchen, which was almost painfully clean. There was one picture on the wall, a decorative glyph meaning ‘peace’.

“I am beginning to think that you don’t have much of an imagination, Prowler.”

Heh, Prowler. He liked that. He whistled a little tune to himself as he poured himself a cube of energon. He downed it in a few gulps and poured himself another, which he drank just as quickly. Halfway through his third cube, he stopped and leaned against the counter. For the first time in a long time he felt wonderfully, deliriously full.

He sighed and raised the cube for another sip.

“You _were_ hungry.”

Jazz yelped and jumped, slopping the energon over his hand. Prowl had the good grace to look embarrassed, and a little startled.  
“Sorry, sorry. Here, let me get that.” Prowl took a step forward and Jazz took an immediate step back. If Prowl thought Jazz was just going to stand there and let him lick it off, he had another thing coming. Few things grossed Jazz out as badly as being _licked_.

For a moment they both stood there staring at each other.

“Sorry,” Prowl said again. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a cleaning cloth and handed it over to Jazz. Jazz snatched it up and set about cleaning himself as quickly as he could. Prowl opened his mouth as if to say something.

“Thanks.” Jazz said. “For the rescue.”

There was a long, awkward pause. Jazz busied himself trying to work the energon out of the cracks in his plating.

“You can use the washrack, if you like.” Prowl said.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

“It’s just down the hall.” Prowl gestured.

“Right. Thanks.” Jazz forced himself to walk slowly, not to run. He was sure he could feel Prowl’s eyes on him, watching him go, but he didn’t dare glance back to check.

Nothing had ever felt as heavenly as the cleanser did just then, sliding over his plating and carrying away the dirt and grime and energon. Jazz luxuriated under the heat, going slow for once, not worrying about getting clean enough for his next client, or fast enough that he could get a decent amount of recharge. When he was done, he stood under the spray and enjoyed being clean and warm and well fed. He spared only a single glance to the door, which he had not just locked, but also booby trapped; leaning the trashcan against the door to alert him if anyone tried to sneak in while he was unaware.

No one did, and eventually he dragged himself out from under the spray and dried himself off. He rummaged under the sink until he found a bottle of polish (not just one bottle of polish, but several, all of the exact same kind, lined up in a row with military precision) and a cleaning cloth.

When he finally emerged, he looked better than he had in a very long time. He felt better, too.

Jazz wandered into the sitting room and found Prowl on the couch, apparently deeply involved in a data pad. When Jazz walked in, however, he looked up and smiled.

“You look much better.”

“Uh, thanks.” Jazz folded his arms across his chest.

“How do you feel? Is everything healing alright?”

“Feels like it is.”

Prowl nodded approvingly.

“That’s good. You’re welcome to join me, if you like. I have some novels you can look through, if you like, or you could watch a vid. I wouldn’t be bothered. And there’s more energon if you’re still hungry.”

“Right.”

Prowl went back to his datapad and that was apparently that. Jazz shifted uncomfortably.

“Don’t you have, like… work, or something?”

“Hm? Oh. I, ah, had a lot of vacation time saved up.” Prowl smiled at some internal joke. “A lot of vacation time. No offense, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of letting a stranger wander around my house unsupervised.”

“Right. Yeah.” Jazz wandered over to the shelf and rifled through the data pads. They were mostly nonfiction, accounts of Cybertronian history and politics from one era or another, or collections of logic and strategy puzzles. Jazz finally grabbed a novel about a famous military leader just for something to do and sat down on the couch besides Prowl.

He flipped through the pages, absorbing none of it, hyperaware of Prowl’s presence. The other mech was sitting very still, hardly twitching, apparently so engrossed in his datapad he was barely ventilating. Jazz, on the other hand, could barely hold still.

“Is something wrong?” Prowl asked suddenly, making Jazz start.

“What?”

“You seem uncomfortable.”

Jazz shrugged. “Just bored, is all.”

He waited for the smirk and the _‘Well I’m sure I can find something for us to do_ ’, but it didn’t come, just like none of the rest of it had come. Prowl simply looked concerned.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything in particularly you’d like to do?”

Jazz shrugged. “What do you usually do for fun?”

“Uh… well, this, I’m afraid. Or I go over case files. I don’t get out much,” Prowl said, abashedly.

“A-huh. What do you do when you have friends over?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Jazz realized he’d made a slight miscalculation.

“Oh.”

“As I said. I don’t get out much.” Prowl didn’t seem too offended, just slightly embarrassed. Was _this_ what Prowl had rescued him for? Not a pleasure bot, but a companion, someone to talk to? That would almost be worth sticking around for.

“Well, what kind of music do you listen to? Movies? Shows? You must do _something_ other than sit here and go to work.”

“Well, I…” Prowl hesitated again, looking unsure.

“You’ve got something, I can tell. Spill it, Prowler.”

Prowl’s mouth quirked upward, almost of its own accord, at the nickname.

“I’m quite fond of strategy games, though I rarely have anyone to play with.”

Jazz grinned triumphantly.

“There we go! Boot one up and let’s play!”

Based on appearances, one would assume that Prowl was simply being a good host, as he set up the game. But Jazz was nothing if not good at reading other mechs, and he could tell that Prowl was excited to have someone to play with. It was all in the doorwings, really.

“Have you ever played this game before?”

Jazz glanced it over. It was an actual solid game board, which was rare, and pretty expensive. A flat game board divided into squares, with holes for the pieces to rest. There were four sets of game pieces, each with a different color.

“Never seen it before.” It looked complicated, but Jazz liked a good challenge. Prowl quickly explained the rules. Each player got two colors, and each color had a different set of moves it could do. The basic goal of the game was to capture as many of the opposing team’s pieces as possible, and take over the board. Prowl sent a quick databurst with the more specific and obscure rules.

“I think I get it,” Jazz said.

Prowl smiled, doorwings twitching open ever so slightly.

“Good! Shall we start?”

For the first few minutes, they played in silence. As Jazz got a hang of the game, however, they began to talk, and soon a new aspect of their game evolved – for every piece played, a question had to be asked and answered.

Jazz turned a piece over and over in his hand.

“Okay,” he said. “What made you want to be a police officer?”

He placed the piece down on the corner of the board. Prowl frowned at it.

“In order for society to function successfully, laws must be upheld. Individuals succeeding at the expense of others, or preying on those weaker than them have always frustrated me. It was only logical to make this my career.”

Prowl placed his piece, locking Jazz into one of three moves, none of which was tactically advantageous.

“And you? Is this what you wanted for a career?”

Jazz bit down on the inside of his mouth and didn’t answer right away. When he glanced up at Prowl’s face, he saw no judgment or disgust or pity; only neutral curiosity.

“No.” He said, and placed another piece; closing a gap in his defense that Prowl had been approaching.

“Then what was?”

“Ah-ah, one question at a time!” Jazz insisted. He caught the look on Prowl’s face and grinned. “It’s not cheating; it’s just not playing fair.”

“Fine. Ask your question.”

“You’re Praxian. What brought you to Tyger Pax?”

There was a long silence. For a minute, Jazz thought Prowl wouldn’t answer.

“I caught my superior officer in Prax taking bribes to look the other way. When I tried to do something about it, I accidentally uncovered a lot of corruption.” He said it like most people talked about finding hardened energon candies under the couch cushions. “It went very high up, very nearly to the head of police of Prax entirely. Unfortunately, not all of them were found guilty in court. So I was commended, given a medal, and very quietly reassigned.”

Jazz dug through his memory banks.

“I remember hearing about that. That was you?”

“Mmhm.”

“I am _impressed_ , Prowler.”

Prowl placed his piece, and Jazz swore quietly, scrambling to mentally adjust his strategy.

“What did you want to do?”

Jazz stared at the board, which had suddenly turned to nonsense. He reset his optics a few times.

“I wanted to be a musician,” he said quietly. “I used to be. I had a little place I owned, played there every night.” He smiled at the memory. “It wasn’t glamorous, but it was never about the money. I just wanted to make something beautiful for people to enjoy.”

“What happened?” Prowl asked.

Something bitter rose in Jazz’s fuel tank.

“Got shut down. A police raid found a whole bunch of illegal stuff in the basement that I never put there. Spent every credit to my name on legal fees, trying to stay out of jail. Had to sell the bar and my apartment and every damn thing I owned. By the time it was over, I was flat broke and no one wanted to hire me.”   

The bitterness rose until it was in the back of his throat. Spots danced in front of his eyes.

_“I’ve watched you for a long time. Longer than you know. You belong to me. It’s about time you realized it, **buymech**_ **.’**

Jazz shook his head hard, deleting the memory thread. He glanced up at Prowl, who was watching him sadly. There was still no pity in his eyes. Jazz huffed a laugh.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I barely know you.”

“I’ve been told I’m a very good listener.”

“What about you, do you, uh… you play anything?” Jazz’s vocalizer glitched mid-sentence, and he winced. Prowl huffed a laugh.

“Ohh, no. Let me tell you about the time my creators tried to get me to play the lyre.”

Jazz grinned, grateful for the subject change. He reached out and placed his piece, stealing three of Prowl’s and turning the board in his favor in one move. Prowl scowled at the board.

“I sense a story.”

“It was a good, respectful instrument for the sparkling of a high level clerk and a law assistant. I wasn’t against it at first, but I could never get the hang of it. Every week, the teacher would come in and I’d sit there for an hour, dragging at the strings and hating every second of it. No matter how perfectly I put my fingers, no matter how hard I tried, every note sounded flat. And I always got messed up trying to go from one note to the other. I just couldn’t follow the sound.

“But my creators wouldn’t let me quit. ‘We don’t quit!’ they’d say. ‘Quitting is for failures who don’t get ahead in life, and there are no failures in this family!’”

To Jazz’s delight, Prowl actually imitated the overbearing tones of his creator.

“Then what happened?”

“Well one day, I just got finished with my lesson, and I was so frustrated. I think I was crying; I was just so _mad,_ at myself, at my creators. My father was giving me the lecture about failures again and finally I just… snapped and yelled that I was quitting, and then I could be the first person in this family to succeed at being a failure and he could just <i> _shove it </i>.” _

Jazz burst out laughing, nearly missing Prowl move a piece into an attack position.

“I bet that went over well.”

“Oh, that wasn’t all. See, I was so mad, I threw the lyre out the window.”

“Yikes!”

 “It gets worse: my teacher was standing right under the window as he left, and it hit him.”

Jazz couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard.

 

Jazz ended up losing the game, but it was a close match, and he insisted on another, and another. By the time evening rolled around, Jazz had won a few games, to Prowl’s obvious delight.

“I hope we can do this again tomorrow,” Prowl asked when they took a break to refuel.

“Sure thing, Prowler.”  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay, but I have finally finished school, so expect more chapters more frequently. :)

It took Jazz three days of waking up alone in Prowl’s room before it stopped surprising him. He wanted to argue with Prowl – the mech shouldn’t be sleeping on his couch when Jazz was a “guest” – but he couldn’t think of a way to word it that didn’t sound like an invitation for them to share the bed.

Waiting for Prowl to show his true colors was starting to wear on his processor. Watching his own actions and words for any accidental invitations, and watching Prowl for any sign that the pleasant, polite mask was about to crack… any longer and Jazz was going to go crazy.

No, it was worse than that. Any longer, and Jazz was going to start letting his guard down.

Any longer, and Jazz was going to start hoping.

He could feel it happening already, a quiet little voice forming in a dark corner of his processor, whispering that if Prowl was going to turn on him, he’d have done it already. Telling him that he should just stop worrying and relax already. Telling him that Prowl was too nice to be that kind of person.

Anyone could be that kind of person. Jazz knew that for a fact.

It was making him desperate. He found himself deliberately slipping things into their conversations that could be read as flirtations if you wanted them to be, and letting his hand linger when they brushed past one another. He didn’t want to have to leave, and he didn’t want Prowl to turn out to want that from him, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

He didn’t dare let himself hope.

 

It took some convincing on Prowl’s part, but he managed to persuade Jazz to accompany him out shopping. It was strange to be among the bustling crowd – it was the same city and the same people, but somehow it seemed like it was someplace completely different, someplace brighter and happier. Jazz figured that nearly a week of being well-fueled and well-rested might change one’s perspective on things.

He and Prowl walked amicably down the sidewalk, through the hustle and the bustle. Prowl, Jazz was finding, was remarkably easy to talk to, about a variety of topics. Jazz was used to keeping his thoughts to himself – clients didn’t care about anything other than your frame, and his “coworkers”, as Prowl insisted on calling them, kept to themselves. But Prowl was interested in what Jazz had to say, and Jazz found himself talking more in those few days than he had in years.

At the moment they were debating, of all things, the existence of Primus.

“No, look, you’ve got it all wrong,” Jazz protested. “If there’s some big mech down below who could erase all sin and cruelty in the world with the wave of a hand, why hasn’t he done it?”

 “If you’re going to keep assuming we can guess the motivations of a mech powerful enough to create life as we know it, we’re never going to get anywhere in this argument,” Prowl retorted.

Rather than feeling frustrated, as he usually did when someone argued with him, Jazz just laughed, feeling elated.

Prowl came to a halt outside a store.

“I need to pick up some tubing for the energon converter.” He hesitated, looking embarrassed. “This, ah… might take a while. The owner and I are good friends, but he tends to talk a lot. You probably wouldn’t find it interesting.”

Jazz rolled his shoulders.

“It’s fine. I can entertain myself. Just comm me when you’re done, and I’ll come back.” Jazz tilted his head back and read the name of the store – Bluestreak’s Paraphernalia.

Prowl held out a credit chit.

“Here. Just in case you see something you like.”

Jazz took the chit and checked it, optics going wide when he saw how much Prowl had put on it.

“N- Prowl, I can’t take this.”

“Of course you can.”

“It’s too much! I can’t pay you back.”

“Consider it a trade, for putting up me with. You’re the first person I’ve met in years who presents an actual challenge at my games.”

“Prowl—“

The mech reached out and took his hand, curling his fingers in over the chit. Jazz stared into the most honest, guileless smile he’d ever seen. “I insist.”

Jazz stared at Prowl for a moment. Then he gave an exaggerated sigh.

“Alright, fine!” he said. “Comm me when you’re done.”

Prowl waved and disappeared inside the shop. Jazz turned and began walking down the street slowly, turning the chit over and over in his hand. This was more spending money than he’d had access to in a long time. But what should he get? He usually spent all of his money on fuel, but he didn’t need to do that now.

He could buy himself a treat. He hadn’t had rust sticks in a while. Or he could buy himself a new sitar and maybe play—

No. No, he wouldn’t do that.

He glanced down and ran a hand over his chipped paint. Pearl and iridescent blue-black. It was meant to be eye-catching, alluring. It marked him as a cheap mech, one anyone could buy if they had the right money.

His hand tightened around the chit. He might not be able to maintain it, once he was on his own again, but it would be nice, just for a little while, to look _good_ again.

Jazz picked up his pace, eagerly, and stepped into the first detailing shop he saw.

The door chimed as he stepped inside, and he offered the sales mech a smile.

“Heya,” he said. “I’m looking for something pretty simple, same as what I have, but more of a basic shine, you know?”

The mech gave him a tight smile.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I think you might be in the wrong place.”

Jazz looked around, uncertain.

“Uh… you do sell paint here, yes? You do detailing, body work?”

“Sir.” The sales mech said again, with a very deliberate glance at Jazz’s chassis. “You are in the _wrong place_. You don’t _belong_ here.”

It clicked. _Oh._ Of course.

Jazz huffed a laugh. “Right, I get it. No, it’s okay, I have the money—“

“Sir.” The mech interrupted, and the smile became downright unpleasant. “I don’t care.”

“…Oh.” His fuel tank bottomed out, leaving him empty and cold. “Right. Fine then. Okay.” Jazz turned, and walked out of the shop. Back out on the street, and suddenly everything was _normal_ again. Everyone was looking at him, glancing him up and down, judging him and finding him lacking, or measuring him up and wondering how much he cost. He felt dirty, and sick.

He fled down the road, shoving past people and not caring who. Humiliation seethed through his lines, burning away the confidence he’d started out with. Stupid. Stupid! Did he think that because he had food and money and a safe place to sleep that would make him any less of a whore?

His hand tightened so hard around the credit chit the plastic creaked. ‘Payment for putting up with me’, what a load of scrap. A buymech was a buymech, whether he was being paid to frag or play strategy games.

There was a little park off to one side of the street, and he ducked into it, finding a quiet place away from the crowd. He sat down on a bench hidden by a crystal formation, and curled up tightly. He hated himself, he hated his life, he hated absolutely everything.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when Prowl commed him. Jazz couldn’t even consider getting up and walking out among the crush of people, so he sent his coordinates and stayed put. Fifteen minutes later, Prowl appeared.

“Hello!” he said brightly. When he got a good look at Jazz he stopped. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Everything’s just _dandy_.” Jazz stood and marched past Prowl, intent on getting back to the apartment as quickly as possible. Prowl grabbed his arm, swinging him around. Jazz jerked away. “Get off me!”

“Hey! What’s the matter? What happened?”

“Nothing! I’m _fine_. Let’s just go, okay?”

“Didn’t you get yourself anything?”

“No.”

“Jazz, I told you, I don’t mind if you use the money—“

Jazz turned and shoved Prowl back against the crystal, crashing their hips together.

“If you’re going to pay me, you might as well pay me for doing my job, right? That’s what I’m good for. That’s all I’m good for, so just do it, already!” He kissed Prowl so hard the officer’s head slammed back against the crystal.

Prowl was still for a moment, then flailed, sputtering, and shoved Jazz away.

“Jazz, what—I am not going to sleep with you!”

“And why the frag not?” Jazz snarled. “Why the hell else are you keeping me around, if you don’t want to use me? What other reason could you _possibly_ have for rescuing me? Huh? Why!”

“Because you’re not my type,” Prowl snapped. “I rescued you because you were hurt and you needed help, and it’s my job to help people! I knew if I took you to the hospital, they’d call the police and someone less understanding than me would arrest you on trumped up charges, and I figured you already had enough to deal with!”

For a moment they stood there, glaring at each other. Shame welled up in Jazz’s spark, and he turned away first.

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s go.”

Prowl caught Jazz’s arm again, and this time Jazz didn’t pull away.

“Jazz,” he said again, in a softer voice. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please?”

Jazz huffed and looked back at Prowl, a humorless smile on his face. “Buymechs don’t get nice things, Prowl. I forgot that, and the very nice mech at the body shop was kind enough to remind me.”

Prowl’s face tightened with genuine anger. Jazz  stiffened. He’d seen that expression before, but never on Prowl’s face. Something about seeing it on Prowl’s face was more terrifying than seeing it anywhere else. The other mech caught the look on Jazz's face and visibly calmed himself.

“Then the mech was a cruel, petty idiot, and you shouldn’t listen to anything he has to say.”

Jazz stared at his feet, unsure of how to react to that.

“I _mean it_ , Jazz. You’re worth more than what you do for a living, and if he can’t figure that out, then he’s a glitch. You’re intelligent, you’re clever, you’re funny, Jazz, you are an amazing individual. He’s an aft that’ll never amount to anything.”

Jazz gave Prowl a smile, spark a little lighter.  

“Come on.” Prowl grabbed his hand and pulled gently. “I’ll take you to where I usually go.”

 

Where Prowl usually went turned out to be one of the most high end body shops Jazz had ever laid eyes on. It was so high end it didn’t even have any paint chips on display, and there were no prices listed anywhere. Jazz figured if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.

“Just how rich _are_ you, exactly?” Jazz whispered to Prowl.

“It’s a secret.”

“Why would that be a _secret_?”

“It helps me maintain my mysterious allure,” Prowl replied, completely deadpan. Jazz realized he was joking, and made a face at him. Prowl smiled.

The room was tastefully decorated, but mostly empty, except for a few chairs and a counter, behind which a well-painted femme stood. When she saw Prowl, she beamed, and stepped around the counter, hand outstretched.

“Prowl! How wonderful to see you again. Did you need another touch up? Rough day on the job?”

“Not today, Greenlight. My friend here was hoping for a new look.”

Primus bless her, Greenlight didn’t cycle an optic. She gave Jazz a genuine smile, and shook his hand.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, sir, my name is Greenlight.”

“Jazz. Likewise,” he said, and meant it.

“If you’ll come right this way, we have our best mech on staff today.”

“I thought Sunstreaker only worked mornings," Prowl remarked, curiously. 

“There was an incident at his work today, and his, ah... _preformance_ was cancelled. He said he had nothing better to do, so he came in here.”

“How fortuitous.”

Greenlight led them into the back of the shop, down a hallway lined with doors.

“Now, did you have any particular color or pattern in mind?” she asked Jazz.

“I want what I’ve got, just… nicer.”

“Alright.”She stopped at one of the doors, and opened it, gesturing them in.

The room was well-lit, with a three-way mirror in one corner and a washrack in the other.

“I’ll go get Sunstreaker, and he’ll come in with a sample book of finishes for you to look at.”

They were alone for a few minutes, and Jazz spent most of it staring at his pedes.

“Look, about what I…what I did, tried to do—“

Prowl held up a hand.

‘It’s alright. I should have realized it would have made you uncomfortable, and I should have made my motivations clearer.”

“Don’t know that it would have mattered, to me.” Jazz muttered. Prowl smiled.

“Well, I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

The door opened, interrupting them, and a tall, gleamingly golden mech stepped inside. Jazz had just a moment to appreciate the liquid gloss and the perfect even color of his paint before the mech recoiled in horror.

“Ugh!” He exclaimed. “You want me to put my best paint on _that_?”

Jazz’s jaw dropped.

“It’s hideous!” The mech went on. “Look at it! Primus! What is it even _made_ of?”

“Excuse me?” Prowl was already pulling himself up, his optics flashing with now-familiar indignation.

The golden mech reached out a hand and plucked a piece of paint off Jazz’ chassis. “It’s flaking, for Primus’ sake, and your _finish_ , what did you do, roll around in crude oil and wait for it to dry? Ugh!”

“I take it you’re Sunstreaker?” Jazz asked, dryly.

The mech nodded, not taking his eyes off Jazz’s finish.

“Unbelievable what they’ll let people walk around in public in, oh and of _course_ it’s completely uneven. Yes, I’m Sunstreaker, and we’re going to get every last scrap of this…this _hideousness_ off your frame before I even think about letting you touch my special mix.”

Sunstreaker shoved a binder into Jazz’s hands.

“There. All of our finishes and glosses. You just wanted black and white again, right?”

Prowl shook his head, expression torn between amusement and annoyance.

“I’ll be right outside. Come get me when you’re done.”

For all his rudeness, Sunstreaker was a very quick worker. By the time Jazz had picked out the exact shade of black and white he wanted and the finish – not as high a gloss as Sunstreaker’s, but something shinier than Prowl’s – Sunstreaker had managed to strip Jazz down to his greymetal.

“You know,” Jazz remarked over the spray as he washed away the last of the solvent, “You had me worried there for a minute, when you first stepped in.”

“Oh, please. I may be a snob, but I’m not an idiot. I work on commission. If I never painted anyone with a bad paint job, I’d never do anything.” He caught the look on Jazz’s face and gave him a humorless half-smile. “And I don’t care what you do for a living. Nearly went into the profession myself, before I found something better.”

Jazz stepped out of the washracks and leaned against the table. Sunstreaker pulled out a few tools and began to pop out all the little dents in Jazz’s plating.

“And what is your something better? Prowl said you only worked here part time.”

Sunstreaker was silent, and for a moment, Jazz thought he wouldn’t answer.

“I’m a gladiator. I’m in the Pits, down in Kaon.”

Jazz raised an optical ridge. “So did you spruce up special to come down here?”

Sunstreaker scoffed and began filling in the larger scratches. “No. I always look like this.”

Jazz raised the other optical ridge. “That’s gotta take a lot of work to look that good every day.”

Sunstreaker actually preened. "Well, it's worth it, really." 

"And it lets you walk around here without anyone thinking twice. Must be nice."

“You’ll be able to do it too, when I’m done with you.” Sunstreaker knelt down and began to paint Jazz’s legs. “So what’s with you and Prowl? He never struck me as the “patron” type.”  You could _hear_ the air quotes clanging down around the word.

Jazz shook his head. “Mech, I couldn’t even begin to tell you. He’s been… very helpful, but I can’t really figure out what he wants out of it.”

 "I know Prowl. He’s a good guy. Not really much for ulterior motives, you know? Not unless he thinks you broke the law, or something.” Sunstreaker glanced up at Jazz. “Saw him once in Kaon, working on a case. Mech gets _scary_ when he thinks he’s got something on you.”

Jazz remembered the look on Prowl’s face when he’d told him about the incident.

“Funny, I don’t have any trouble believing that.” Suddenly something occurred to him. “Do you really come here all the way from Kaon on your days off, just to do paintjobs?”

Sunstreaker shrugged. “It’s not that far. And I enjoy it. I get more free days than you’d think, but most of them I spend training. The days I don’t train or fight, I come up here. Its good money, and I like the work.” He straightened. “Legs are done.”

Jazz admired himself. “That looks good. Really good. Why don’t you just quit and do this for a living? I’m sure you’d make enough money to survive.”

Sunstreaker shook his head and kept painting.

“I could make enough to support myself, but not my brother. He’d go crazy without something to do. And I like the fighting.”

Jazz would have shaken his helm in disbelief if Sunstreaker wasn’t working on it. He spent so much of his time dreaming about being legitimate again. It was hard to imagine anyone wanting to stay in their position on the less savory sides of the world. He supposed it helped if you actually liked what you were doing. Even then, he’d met some mechs who liked the attention and the interfacing, but he didn’t know a single one that wouldn’t leap at any opportunity to do something else for a living.

 

In no time at all, Sunstreaker was done. Jazz stood in front of the three-way mirror, grinning at himself like an idiot.   
“Damn, Sunny!”

Sunstreaker made a face at him.

“Don’t call me that. I’ll go get Prowl. I’ll see you around.”

“Hey, maybe I’ll come up to Kaon some time, see you fight.”

The golden mech grinned at him. “I’d like that. I’ll introduce you to my brother. He’ll like you.”

Jazz stayed in front of the mirror, looking himself over. He couldn’t get enough of it. It’d been a long, long time since he’d looked and felt so good.

The door opened and Prowl stepped in.

“Sunstreaker said he’d finished are you ready to—“ His vocalizor gave out, optics cycling wide and mouth hanging open. “Um.”

Jazz felt something warm bloom inside, spreading his ridiculous smile even wider.

“Looks good, don’t it?”

“Uh…yes. It looks,” Prowl reset his vocalizor noisily. “You look great.”

Jazz couldn’t stop looking at himself. He was mesmorized by the flash of his polish as he walked down the street. He watched himself in every reflective surface he passed by. And he was still grinning. The grin stayed in place all the way down the street, right up until he caught sight of the first paint shop he’d walked into, and all the shame and embarrassment came flooding back.

“Jazz?” Prowl put a hand on his shoulder, looking concerned.

“It’s nothing. It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Prowl caught sight of the shop. “That was the place, wasn’t it?” There was a gleam  in Prowl’s optics that Jazz didn’t recognize.

“Yeah-- look, Prowl, it’s fine, I’m fine--“

Prowl grabbed his hand and dragged him into the store. The mech from before was there, back behind the counter. A different, older looking mech came over, smiling.

“Hello, how can I-“

“Are you the owner?”

“Why yes I-“

“Good, good. I’m going to assume, by the general state of things here, that it’s seen better days. You’re probably having some financial difficulties. It’s a shame, really, since my friend here would have been quite willing to spend quite a bit of money here. I would recommend you maybe look into getting some help that doesn’t feel the need to insult customers to satisfy his ego.” Prowl nodded to the mech in the back, who was looking terrified. Jazz grinned and wiggled his fingers at him.

The door had barely shut behind them before the yelling started. Jazz couldn’t wipe the smile of his face.   
“Prowler, you are really something else.”

Prowl’s lips quirked into a small smile. “That’s what friends are for.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So graduating from college causes more upheaval in your life than I realized. I apologize for the incredibly long delay, and I am grateful to everyone who waited so patiently for more. I promise that the next and final chapter (which is 2/3 done) will be posted by next week, and the epilogue shortly after that.

Jazz had a nice routine, living at Prowl’s place. He woke up late, went for walks, or watched movies, or played games. He was spending most of his time with Prowl, and was surprised to find that he never minded. Normally he liked his privacy and kept to himself, but around Prowl, he felt like his old self, fond of any company for any length of time.

At some point, Jazz would have to leave.  He knew this. One day, he’d be all better, and he couldn’t keep freeloading. He couldn’t afford to help with rent or utilities, and he wouldn’t be able to find a job here. He’d have to explain what he’d been doing in the years since he’d lost his club, and nobody hired buymechs.

But for now, he could let that slip to the back of his processor, and deal with more pressing concerns, like why Prowl’s smile made something flutter in his fuel tank. He and Prowl hadn’t talked about the incident in the park, but it was out there, and they both knew it had happened.

At that moment, a few days after Jazz got his new paint job, he was debating bringing it up. It didn’t feel right to not. They were playing a game that involved placing warships, and trying to sink the other mech’s before he sunk yours. To Jazz, it was a game of chance. Prowl insisted it was too a game of skill, and all about figuring out your opponent’s psychology.

Since Jazz won about as often as Prowl did, Jazz wasn’t inclined to believe him.

“You’re distracted. B7.”

“Miss. I am not.” A click as Prowl moved a white peg to the board. “E5.”

“That’s the third time tonight you’ve called E5. You’re distracted.”

Jazz swore softly. “Fine. G1.”

“Hit. What’s bothering you? E9.”

“Miss. Nothing. G2.”

“Miss. It’s definitely something. B3.” 

Jazz went quiet. “About… about what happened at the park…”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“But I do!” Jazz rubbed his helm, uncomfortably. “I’m just…it’s been a long time since anybody wanted to do anything close to helping. And even longer since they did something like that without expecting anything in return, ya get me?”

Prowl gave him a soft look. “Of course I do.” He reached out and placed his hand over Jazz’s. Jazz had to fight not to shiver at the sudden warmth sliding through his circuits. 

“Look, for what it’s worth…” Prowl opened and closed his mouth a few times. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed. With a rueful smile, he said “I want to help you. I want you to trust me. But I want you to feel safe here.”

Jazz pulled his hand away, reluctantly. “Don’t tell me I can stay here as long as I want, okay? Don’t do that. I’m nobody’s kept mech, even if you’re not asking anything from me.”

Prowl’s mouth went tight. “All I want to do is help you.”

“I know that! But owing people makes me nervous. Look. I want to trust you. I know it bothers you that I can’t. But I just--“ He couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t say that he was worried that if he took Prowl’s generosity, if he got a chance to stay here, he’d never leave, whatever his paranoia told him. Prowl vented again.

“I understand. But when you do leave, if you ever need anything…Promise me you’ll at least come visit me, once in a while?”

“Yeah,” Jazz said with a smile. “Alright.”  

And how long would that last, Jazz wondered. Once he was out of sight, back to doing his dirty work, would Prowl really want to sully himself by being friends with an active buymech? It was one thing now, when they could put it out of mind and pretend, but when Jazz would show up at the door step with new dents in his hips and his cheap flashy paintjob again, would Prowl still want to be friends? Or would he be ashamed?

Something told Jazz that Prowl would be willing to be friends, no matter what. He tried not to think about it. It felt too much like hope.

 

Jazz won three games in a row, and then they called it a night. They said their customary goodnights, and Jazz headed to the berth room to sleep. At the doorway, he hesitated, and turned back. Prowl was in the living room, setting up the couch to recharge on.

“Hey,” Jazz said. Prowl straightened up.

“What is it, Jazz?”

“Look, uh… Doesn’t feel right to make you sleep out here like this. Berth’s big enough for two.” When he first got here, he’d been afraid that such an offer sounded too much like an invitation to interface. Now he knew that Prowl would never be so gauche, and Jazz found it annoying that he wanted him to.

“Are you sure?” Prowl said, uncertainly. “I’m fine out here, honestly--“

“No, no, I mean it. Come on, Prowler, I feel like an aft making you recharge on the couch every day.”

Prowler huffed a laugh in the way that meant Jazz had won. “Alright, alright.”

There was enough room for two, though it was a little cozier than Jazz had realized with Prowl’s door wings getting in the way of everything. They ended up having to both face the same direction, with Prowl’s wings hanging off the side of the berth.

Part of him was still nervous, sensor net tingling as he waited -- _dreaded, hoped_ \-- for the first touch, for Prowl to turn it into something more than just sharing a bed. He was waiting for it, feeling for it, so hard that when Prowl spoke, it made him jump.

“I was thinking about going back to work.”

“Oh. Uh…” was that his way of saying it was time for Jazz to go? As if he’d read Jazz’s mind, Prowl hurried to add

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. But I think I trust you enough by now not to loot my apartment and run off while I’m away. And I miss work.”

Jazz grinned in the darkness.

“I dunno Prowler, I could get a pretty penny for all those board games you collect.”

Prowl gave a heavy, exasperated vent, and Jazz struggled to stifle his laughter.

“You know, I’m so glad we’re friends, because it’s so nice to have someone that I can rely on to be supportive and understanding.”

“Aw, don’t be sad, Prowler, if you don’t like me, you can just call up one of your many other friends to pad your delicate ego.”

Prowl punched him on the shoulder and Jazz cracked up.

“We’re supposed to be recharging, you scraplet.”

“What, you don’t find witty banter relaxing?”

“I’m ignoring you.”

“I’m hurt, Prowler, I really am.”

“Shhhhh.”

“Would you rather I hum you a tune? A nice lullaby to rock you into recharge?”

“I’m going back to the couch.”

“Okay! Okay! You win, I’ll be quiet.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

There was a short pause.

“ _I went walking down the road, looking for my baby-“_

“Jazz, I swear to Primus, I will strangle you while you recharge.”

Jazz couldn’t answer; he was laughing too hard.

 

Jazz didn’t wake up right away the next morning. He’d grown used to not having an alarm or anywhere to be or anything urgent to do, and he’d fallen into old sleep patterns of waking up whenever the hell he wanted.

He was a little warm, but comfortable. The cooling blanket had gotten tangled around his legs, and Prowl’s vents made a pleasant, soft counterpoint to his own. The berth was soft, the room was quiet, the arms around him were strong and the--

Arms.

He onlined his optics, and looked around. At some point during the middle of the night, he’d rolled over, right against Prowl. And Prowl had apparently welcomed this nocturnal visitation, because they were tangled together. Jazz’s arms were around Prowl’s waist, his helm tucked up under Prowl’s chin, so close he could sense Prowl’s spark whirring softly in its chamber. Prowl’s arms were wrapped around him, and he didn’t seem likely to accidentally let go.

The thing to do, Jazz decided, was to wriggle out of this as carefully as possible without waking Prowl at all, and then never mention it. Even if it did feel nice.

He leaned back a little, pulling Prowl’s arms with him. At once, Prowl stirred, and Jazz froze. He watched helplessly as the other mech’s optics onlined and cycled slowly. The look Prowl gave him was, at first, confused and sleepy and a little adorable.

Then Prowl realized what he was looking at, and went still. For a moment, they stared at each other. Jazz was filled with an overwhelming urge to lean forward and--

They sprang apart, sitting up and avoiding each other’s optics.

“So, uh--“

“We must have, um,”

“Yeah, we sorta-”

“I’m going to go make breakfast!” Prowl announced, scrambling off the berth.

“Yeah, okay, sure, I’m going to go, uh, take a shower, or something.” They fled in opposite directions. Jazz shut the door to the washrack behind him and covered his face with his hands.

“ _Frag_.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't set deadlines for myself. This is the final chapter, with an epilogue coming up. I hope you've enjoyed the story, and I hope it was worth the wait.

They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t stop recharging in the same berth, but they very carefully avoided mentioning what happened when they did. And it didn’t stop happening. Every morning they would find themselves tangled together, and every morning they would extricate themselves and go about their business as if it didn’t happen. Jazz suspected Prowl put off going back to work for a few days so Jazz could be sure he wasn’t trying to flee the situation, but when he did go off it was with very little ceremony.

“…And here’s the spare key.” Prowl pressed the card into Jazz’s servo. “The door locks automatically, so make sure to take it with you. I should be back by six. There’s energon in the kitchen, but feel free to--“

“Prowl!”

“Huh?”

“I’m not a sparkling. I’m a big bot, baby, I can handle myself. Now go! Get out, go to work. Go make the world a safer place! One bad guy at a time.”

Prowl grinned. “Alright, alright. I’ll go then. “

For a moment they stood there staring at each other, grinning like idiots.

“Okay!” Prowl announced, rubbing his servos together. “I’ll be back--“

“At six, you said!”

“Right, right, okay, I’m going. Have a nice day.”

“You too, Prowler.” Jazz shut the door behind him and leaned against it, venting. “Whoof.” He stared around the empty apartment. “Now what?”

 

 

Jazz had made himself comfortable on the couch, watching trashy day time vids and checking on his injuries. Almost fully healed. He wouldn’t have an excuse to stick around much longer. And then--

There was a knock at the door, distracting him from his morbid thoughts. Jazz looked at it, confused. In all his days of living here with Prowl, there’d never been a single visitor. Prowl didn’t have much by way of friends. Another knock, this one slightly more impatient.

Jazz laughed to himself and stood, heading to open the door.

“Prowler, of all the people in the world to forget their keys, you are the last mech I would…ever…”

“Hello, Jazz,” said Steelwing.

 

An alert pinged. Not looking up from the paperwork, Prowl devoted 15.9 percent of his processor to checking it. When he saw was it was, he stopped, and devoted 100 percent.

Prowl wasn’t as paranoid as Red Alert, but he did have enemies. Lots of those enemies were political, who in a lot of ways were more dangerous than the regular ones, who just wanted to kill him. He’d installed a certain kind of scanner at all the possible entrances of his apartment, which alerted him whenever someone he hadn’t approved came in.

Right now it was a mech named Steelwing.

Steelwing, Steelwing…why did the name sound so familiar? Was it one of Jazz’s friends? But Jazz didn’t seem to like talking or even thinking about his work at the brothel, let alone bring a customer or coworker over for a chat. And he’d made it pretty clear he’d cut all ties with his friends from before, to spare himself the shame.

He did a quick search of all the reports in his memory banks. Ah, here, a few weeks ago. Steelwing had been found on Prekarun Avenue, covered in scratches and splashed with energon. He’d told the officers that he’d had a bad run in with a friend’s fighting cybercat. The senior officer on the scene had noted his behavior as ‘unsuspicious’ and let him pass unhindered. The junior officer, a rookie desperate for a big, dramatic case like you found in the vids, had written Prowl a report. Since Prowl had been out of the office, it had gone to his superior, who wasn’t about to go mucking about in a noble’s business without reason.

But no, that couldn’t be it, Prowl had barely looked at the report, just glanced it over and filed it away under ‘completed and unimportant’. Where had he heard the name? Recently. In a bad way. Had Jazz told him about an old client or friend?

Yes, he thought, Jazz _had_ told him about Steelwing.

A few nights before, when they had been sleeping on the berth together.

During a nightmare.

A nightmare that made him skittish to the touch and afraid to go near windows.

Prowl was out the door in seconds, shooting down the road with his sirens screaming without so much as a leave of absence request to his superior.

 

It was a bad dream. It had to be. It felt like one, to be staring up at Steelwing, in what had been such a safe place.

Stupid, _stupid!_ In all his years as a buymech, Jazz had NEVER opened any door to a knock without checking to see who it was. Even _before_ that, he’d at least have left the security chain in.

“What…what are you doing here?” he asked, backing away slowly.

“Don’t be stupid,” Steelwing said, those cold eyes never leaving Jazz’s face. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

“I didn’t, I didn’t tell anybody,” he said, and hated himself for the pleading tone in his voice. “You can just go, I won’t tell anyone--“

“Do you really think _that_ concerns me? I’m rich enough,” and suddenly Steelwing was right in his face, lip plating pulled back into a snarl “to buy every police officer in this _city._ It wouldn’t matter if you’d shouted it from the rooftops.”

“But, I don’t--“

Steelwing’s hand closed around his throat, cutting Jazz off. He gagged as the energon in his lines was backed up and his vocalizor was compressed.

“You stupid _whore_!” Steelwing snarled. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been working on you? You could have done this the easy way. You could have accepted my offer, and you could have kept your precious little club. But you refused me! You were a worthless slut who’d spread his legs for anyone who walked into his bar--“

Jazz forced a grin, and croaked “except you. I only sleep with the pretty psychos.”

Steewing backhanded him across the face. Jazz brought his leg up and kicked out, hitting Steelwing in the fuel tank and sending him stumbling back. Jazz hit the ground and rolled, wheezing, trying to get energon to his vocalizor to call for help. Steelwing lunged for him and Jazz dodged, running for the door. Inches away, Steelwing’s claws bit into his ankle, making him fall. He kicked back, catching Steelwing straight in the face, but the noble’s grip didn’t slack.

He was dragged back, and Steelwing pressed his face against the floor. Jazz flailed, scrabbling for purchase, trying to get anywhere sensitive. The cold blankness Steelwing had showed the first time was gone, replaced by madness. Jazz had assumed that any emotion would have been better than the nothingness.

He was wrong.

 

Prowl switched off his siren a few blocks away from his apartment and continued on foot. Most people took one look at him and got out of his way, but he wasn’t above shoving. Stupid, stupid, why hadn’t this occurred to him? Someone beat Jazz half to death and he didn’t even think to do something about that? He could excuse himself for not wanting to push Jazz, after a traumatic event, but then to just leave him alone in his apartment with no way to defend himself?

Idiot!

He dashed through the lobby of his building and threw himself into the open elevator. He ripped out the cover to the control panel and plugged himself in. He overrode the controls, set the elevator to slightly faster than normal, and hit the button to his floor. It was bad for the elevator and the super would give him hell for it, but right now, he didn’t care.

 

Steelwing had one of Jazz’s arms trapped under his leg, and was slowly twisting the other one till the metal and gears wailed in protest. Jazz couldn’t even scream, not with Steelwing’s hand crushing his throat.   
“You stupid, stupid whore.” Steelwing hissed. “You could have lived in luxury as my pet. I would have given you anything you ever asked for!” He slammed Jazz’s head into the floor. “But you forced my hand! You never obeyed! Not even after I planted the drugs and payed off the judges to push for a conviction! I beggared you! I forced you to sell yourself and you still wouldn’t submit!”

Jazz spat, hitting Steelwing’s face.

“I’d rather offline,” he croaked, “than ever touch you again.”

Steelwing drew a knife. “Fine then. If I can’t have you, no one can.”

A shot of blaster fire and the knife went spinning out of Steelwing’s servo. He shrieked and clutched at the smoking appendage. The noble turned, and Jazz almost wept with relief. Prowl stood in the doorway, blaster aimed squarely at Steelwing’s chest.

“Stand up,” he ordered. Steelwing laughed through energon-covered lips.

“You don’t dare shoot me. If I dodge, you’ll hit him.”

Prowl didn’t move the gun an inch.

“You think you’re fast enough to dodge laser fire?” His gaze very carefully did not move. “Jazz? Are you alright?”

“As good as can be expected,” Jazz said. He pushed himself up, weight on his good arm, and bit down hard on Steelwing’s wing. Some customers liked to be bitten. But not Steelwing. Especially not when Jazz dug his teeth in and worried the plating like a turbohound.

Steelwing screamed and jerked away, falling off of Jazz, who rolled away. The noble got his feet under him, and lunged at Prowl, who dodged and fire. The shot went wide, and Steelwing knocked Prowl to the ground. He raised his claws over his head. 

“I’ll rip you limb from limb,” he hissed. “I’ll tear you apart till you’re nothing but a head and a sparkchamber, then I’ll make you watch when I kill h-“

CRACK!

Steelwing jerked. He blinked a few times, confused. Then his optics rolled up, and he fell back.

Jazz stood behind him, one of Prowl’s incredibly-heavy art pieces in his hands.

“Fragger cost me my bar!” He said, furious. “He planted the damn drugs! He made sure I’d lose everything so he could…” He dropped the piece. Prowl winced as his 500 credit Tripwire original hit the ground.  But he let it go, and stepped forward, putting a hand on Jazz’s shoulder.

“Jazz--“

The other mech flung his arms around Prowl and buried his face in his chest. “And he’s gonna get away with it!”

Prowl wrapped his arms tightly around Jazz.

“No he won’t.”

“Who’s gonna believe a buymech? They didn’t believe me about the hitting or the threats!”  Jazz was close to tears. “He’ll pay someone off, and walk away, and he’ll keep coming for me! I’m never-“

“Jazz!”

The mech looked up at him, confused.

“He won’t get away with it, because I recorded the whole thing.”

Jazz stared at him. “You what.”

Prowl smiled, and explained. Jazz stared at him.

“You’re fragging crazy.”

“I do my best with what I have,” he said mildly. 

Jazz grabbed Prowl’s helm.

“I love you,” he said, and kissed him.

Jazz had never really liked kissing, even before he had to do it for money. Too many fluids, too many weird textures. But kissing Prowl, with Steelwing unconscious and bleeding on the floor, he felt even better than his old self. It was like flying. It was like being free.  


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thanks to everyone who stuck with me till the end. I know I don't respond to comments (sorry about that) but do know that I read every single one and I love them all.   
> Here's the very last chapter, an epilogue to wrap everything up.

Jazz grabbed a pallet of empty energon cubes and heaved, dumping it on the counter with a gasp.   
“Damn, that never gets any lighter,” he muttered, stretching and looking around. The bar was almost ready to open. The building had been bought and remodeled, and Jazz had polished every surface until it gleamed. He’d even brought Sunstreaker in to paint a few frescos on the walls, mostly of mechs and femmes dancing and singing. Up on the stage at the end was a brand new sitar, gleaming softly in the light and waiting for him to pick it up and play again. 

It was amazing how quickly things had changed after Steelwing’s arrest. Prowl had rock solid evidence for a dozen crimes. Given that Steeltread was a noble with considerable political pull, the authorities had to make absolutely sure that they left no room for his lawyers to maneuver, which meant doing everything by the book, to the letter.

Not that it mattered, in the end. Once the transcript of Steelwing’s confession was “mysteriously” leaked, the whole of Cybertron was screaming for a conviction. The council of nobility was no exception -- even they had lines they didn’t cross.

In the end, Steelwing had been tried for bribing a judge, drug possession, planting evidence, interfering with a criminal investigation, breaking and entering, several cases of assault (including assaulting an officer of the law), attempted kidnapping, intent to enslave, and extortion. He’d been convicted on all counts. To follow up that punch to the fuel tank with a swift kick to the interface equipment, Jazz had then dragged him to civil court to demand reparations for loss of business, plus emotional and physical trauma. The noble council was more than happy to give Jazz what he wanted. Richer than ever, Jazz had immediately gone out and bought the bar.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said. “Know any place where a mech can get something to drink?”

Jazz grinned at Prowl and leaned against the counter.

“Well, I know this great bar. It ain’t open yet, but I’m sure the owner will take pity on you.”

Prowl looked around, smiling.

“It looks great, Jazz. When do you open?”

“Few more days at the least.” Jazz poured a little high grade into two freshly unpacked cubes and set them on the counter. Neither of them touched the cubes, and they couldn’t quite look at each other, for all their smiles. “So, um… haven’t really seen you around much.”

Prowl looked uncomfortable. Everything had moved quickly after Steelwing’s arrest, and though Jazz _had_ seen him, it was mostly in a professional sense -- they were always surrounded by other officers, or lawyers, or in a court room somewhere testifying. And since Jazz started working on the bar, Prowl would only stop buy when Jazz was busy with the construction crew or the architect, making for very quick, confusing visits.

“Be straight with me, Prowler,” Jazz said, grabbing Prowl’s wrist. “Are you avoiding me?”

Startled, Prowl looked up. When he met Jazz’s optics, he flinched, but didn’t look away.

“No,” he said. “Well, sort of. I wanted to give you some space. Time to adjust to being, you know…”

“Respectable again?” Jazz suggested.

“I was going to say ‘free’,” Prowl said. “I knew this would be a very emotional time for you and I didn’t want to take advantage--“

“Take advantage?” Jazz repeated, aghast.

“Well, I mean, the last time we were alone in a room together, you, well, you--“

“I kissed you.” Jazz let go of Prowl’s wrist and folded his arms. That stung. Had he completely misread the signs? Had Prowl really been so put off?

“Well you didn’t just kiss me,” Prowl said, avoided Jazz’s gaze again.  “There was also the whole…declaration of love thing that you did, too.”

It would have been funny to watch him squirm if it had been anybody else he was squirming at. Jazz had considered that Prowl was avoiding him because he didn’t return Jazz’s feelings, but it was one thing to think it and another thing to actually stand there and be rejected. That’s what he got for letting people in, he scolded himself. That’s what he got for hoping.

Prowl was talking again, and he forced himself to listen.

“…and I know that some people, during high-stress scenarios, can get emotional and irrational and--“ He caught the look Jazz was giving him, faltered, and pressed on. “And I just wanted to wait until I was sure you wouldn’t be emotional--“

Jazz stared. Was he _serious_ right now? He was going to hit Prowl. Right in the face.

“And ask you if you meant it. So, so that I would know that you really did feel that way about me and not worry that in a few months when all the excitement died down you would come to your senses and leave.”

Jazz opened his mouth to retort and stopped.

Oh.

_Oh._

“Oh.” He said weakly. Prowl was giving him a desperate, painfully hopeful look.

 Jazz laughed.

“Baby you are _ridiculous_.” He wrapped his arms around Prowl and kissed him again. It was just as good as the first time. Maybe even better. Prowl held him tightly, and didn’t even let go when the kiss ended. “You could have just asked.”

“I did ask!” Prowl insisted. “I just had to wait till the time was right! Were you not listening?”

“You’re cute when you’re indignant, I like that.”

“I am no such thing.”

“I could take a picture for you.”

“No.”

“Ya sure? Ya got this little pout thing going on here,” he waved a finger around Prowl’s mouth. “And I’m pretty sure that’s the epitome of adorable.”

“You-“ Prowl started, and stopped. Then he grinned. “I love you.”

“Smart mech.” Jazz said, and kissed him again. It was a perfect moment, one that promised only wonderful things. Jazz had a future again, and it was one he liked. For years he’d dreamed of things going back to the way they were, but this was better. He wouldn’t say it had all been worth it, to have this moment, but it was close. And it was good.

“Maybe next time don’t wait four months to say it back next time though,” he said, as Prowl leaned in to kiss him again. Prowl sighed heavily.

“You’re going to hold this over my head forever, aren’t you?”

“Till the day I offline, baby.”

“Oh, _good.”_


End file.
